


Adagio

by h_lovely



Series: Requested/Written For [4]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ballet, Dancing, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Friendship/Love, Growing Up, Kissing, M/M, Minor Angst, Mutual Pining, Romance, Slow Burn, lots of ballet terms, non-graphic injury, soft soft soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-22
Updated: 2019-11-22
Packaged: 2021-02-17 23:49:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,671
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21518470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/h_lovely/pseuds/h_lovely
Summary: It hadn’t always been as easy as this, as morning practice at the barre with their other members, with the flutter of piano keys in the background and the golden sunlight filtering in through the overhead skylights.[Ballet AU]
Relationships: Hanamaki Takahiro/Matsukawa Issei
Series: Requested/Written For [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1285211
Comments: 14
Kudos: 116





	Adagio

**Author's Note:**

> This is a piece written and dedicated to [mango](https://twitter.com/v4ngogh_mango) and the idea is entirely credited to them. Although I have to say I have fallen in deep for this AU (and there will be more to come in the future)! Thank you for the opportunity to write this beautiful Matsuhana AU. Also, go check out their art on Twitter, it is so so gorgeous!! <3

  
_Adagio (n.) - a succession of slow, soft, graceful and continuous movements performed as a display of skill; (especially in ballet) a love-duet sequence in a pas de deux._

The practice room is small, illuminated by the false warmth of fluorescent bulbs, but the walls are painted a soothing blue and the sound system is vibrant and the wood floor is freshly polished. It’s small, certainly nothing close to the studios in Covent Garden.

Their Ukima studio isn’t exactly The Royal Ballet either, but most of the time these days Hanamaki prefers this—the humid breeze from the east window, the patter of small slipper-feet down the hall, the passing kiss on the cheek before Matsukawa’s evening beginner class. 

The thick curls of Matsukawa’s hair have grown longer as of late, peppered silver strands only showing in the brightest of light. Hanamaki doesn’t mind, calls it charming and laughs deep in his chest when Matsukawa brings his own fingers up to pinch at a few lighter strands of his own. 

This class is split almost evenly, boys and girls, and it always does something to Hanamaki’s heart as he watches Matsukawa guiding stretches at the barre, smile soft and genuine. When they were younger that smile was still just as warm, but his expression always a bit harder, more determined. Eyes full of fire, especially in their element, muscles trembling with overexertion—one more pirouette, one last jeté, and then the thunderous eruption—the applause that leaks through cotton stuffed ears. 

Shining bright as the stars. 

* * *

Their first meeting went something like this: 

Hanamaki, freckles aglow against milk-smooth skin, cheeks round and lashes already so thick, following at the heels of his elder sister. The four year gap leaves him to fend for himself once class starts and he’s lumped in with the beginners, all bright-eyed and gangly-limbed, and all girls—the lot of them.

Except for one. 

This boy is different, dark in all the ways that Hanamaki is strawberry-blond and speckled, taking after his mother the most. He wonders, absently in that childlike way, if this boy takes after his father then—his brows certainly are bushy and his shoulders awfully broad for someone in beginner ballet. But he’s got a soft way about him, not overzealous like some of their other classmates, but strong with the way he stands, with the way he listens intently to their instructor. 

Hanamaki himself has always felt a little bit restless, like he can’t quite keep his muscles where they are wrapped around bone and sinew, like they’d much rather crawl out from beneath his skin and keep going on forever. It’s probably the reason his mother even enrolled him at the studio to begin with. But this boy, he’s— _steady_.

Steady, Takahiro thinks, in the way that he himself feels like a boat lost out to sea. 

Maybe—

Maybe. 

“Hey,” he whispers out in the space between them. “Uh—hi? I’m Takahiro.”

It’s possible that the boy just doesn’t hear him. He’s trying to be quiet, doesn’t really want to interrupt their teacher, but Hanamaki can’t seem to help it. There’s some strange tug in his stomach, some itch he can’t quite scratch and the more he tries the worse it seems to become. 

He doesn’t receive an answer. 

The class moves on to stretching then. This kind of thing he’s used to—he’d been in volleyball and taekwondo since before he can even remember after all. _At the base of it_ , his mother had said when he’d complained about his newest extra curricular, _dancing is a sport just like anything else_. 

So Hanamaki bends to the floor as much as he can, feeling the burn in his legs, inside the muscles he can’t remember the name of, and turns his head to try again.

“Hey,” he says, this time keeping his voice at a reasonable speaking volume. Their instructor is currently busy worrying over a group of girls in matching leotards, so Hanamaki figures this is a now or never kind of situation. 

He waits, patiently, or at least tries to. The boy still doesn’t look at him, eyes set in the wall straight ahead. It’s hard to tell if he’s just being shy or if it’s something else altogether. Hanamaki hopes he’s not mean—then he’ll have to pick a new target for friendship and it seems like he’s already missed most of the boats there, the whole class having already grouped and paired up along the sprung-wood floor. The ceiling-tall mirrors of the studio make it look even more crowded, make Hanamaki’s heart beat a little bit faster when he realizes he may have to go it alone after all—especially considering the boy still hasn’t said anything by way of greeting. 

“I just thought maybe—” he tries again, a bit more desperate. “You seem cool and I thought we could be friends?”

This, for whatever reason, finally seems to snap the boy out of whatever daydream he might’ve been caught in. His eyes turn to find Hanamaki’s, something molten in their dark depths. “Cool?” he questions, brows raising like he really can’t begin to fathom the word. 

Hanamaki shrugs, not sure where he’d come up with it either, but not about to take it back. “Uh, yeah? I mean—you’re a lot more flexible than me.”

He watches the other boy, legs splayed in a wide v-shape—the way he eyes him with just a hint of suspicion. “That doesn’t really have anything to do with being cool,” he mutters.

Ah, Hanamaki _might_ understand now. He’d felt a particular bit of nervousness when he’d followed after his sister, when he’d realized he was going to inevitably be the minority here. 

“Well—I’m deciding that it does,” he announces, probably a bit too loudly considering the few heads that turn their way.

At this the boy snorts out a low laugh. “You’re weird,” he decides, but doesn’t make to scoot away. “Did you just get dragged here with your sister or what?”

Hanamaki considers this, considers the answer this boy expects, considers the answer that is the most honest. “I mean, yeah she’s in the upper class. But—I’m not here ‘cause of her.”

A narrow look, suspicion still clearly rippling beneath the surface. “Why are you then?”

Maybe a few moments ago, that might not have been the most honest of answers—but now, Hanamaki feels like he’s had some kind of epiphany in the last few words exchanged with this boy that he’s decided, unequivocally, he wants as his friend. 

“Uh—to learn ballet? Why are _you?_ ” he asks, trying subtly to mimic the same spread position, fighting past the uncomfortable stretch in his legs. 

“Same,” the boy nods after a moment’s more of hesitation. Something sheepish flashes across his face and he averts his eyes to the floor. “Sorry, you just—don’t seem like a dancer.”

Rightfully, Hanamaki shouldn’t feel offended by that statement considering he’d never thought of himself as a dancer before this very moment. He turns his head, feeling an impulsive tug at his tongue. “Well—well neither do you!” he shoots back with a false glare. 

Somehow this does the trick of wiping whatever embarrassment between them away, the boy turning with a grin this time that Hanamaki decides he very much likes. “Yeah— _really_ weird,” he concludes. “I’m Issei.” 

* * *

After seven years of friendship, it would be hard to say Matsukawa hasn’t developed some feelings. He figures this is normal—he and Hanamaki spend nearly every waking minute together, victims of circumstance considering they attend the same school, have the same dance instructors, practically live at each other’s houses when they’re not at the studio. They’re best friends, brothers even. He figures this is normal.

However.

What is _not_ normal, Matsukawa thinks as he watches Hanamaki move swiftly through some new contemporary choreography, is the way his heartstrings tug along with each of Hanamaki’s practiced moves, like they’re attached to him at every freckle that scatters over his supple cheeks, down his lean arms, dipping into his smooth collarbones. Tug, tug, tugging away with every beat of the song thrumming through the speakers, with every thump in Matsukawa’s chest. 

They’re just coming upon their thirteenth year and Matsukawa is feeling the effects of adolescence in a much more profound way than anyone had prepared him for. 

He wonders vaguely if this has anything to do with the grueling amount of time he puts in at the dance studio or the gym, but none of his peers seem to be experiencing any of the internal struggles that he is. Or if they are, they’re doing a significantly better job at hiding it.

He wonders all this—but just the same Matsukawa knows the real reason. It’s not the time put into conditioning his body or memorizing routines or adjusting his techniques. It’s got nothing to do with that at all.

But it does have everything to do with one Hanamaki Takahiro. 

“Did you finish the math assignment?” 

The words fall out of Hanamaki’s lips, slipped through panting breaths just loud enough to be heard over the music’s lively bridge. He pauses long enough to adjust his footing in the mirror and flick his eyes over to where Matsukawa currently sits half-heartedly stretching out his hamstrings. 

Matsukawa breathes in, out. Stares at the tiny bit of skin showing between Hanamaki’s leggings and his old Spring High t-shirt. Something in his chest clenches, a foreign sensation he’s unfortunately starting to grow accustomed to. 

“Uh—yeah,” he says, partly thinking through if he actually did or not. “Did you?”

At this Hanamaki spins, pinning Matsukawa with a certain look. “It’s not fair—your brain must be wired different than mine. Scientific notation can go suck a—”

Before Hanamaki can finish that _particular_ thought, the music abruptly switches off and they both turn to find Yamada-sensei watching them with an unimpressed look. 

“I thought I told you to cool down half-an-hour ago?” he says, arms folded over a broad chest.

Hanamaki stutter-steps out of his last movement, bowing his head just enough to show at least _some_ remorse. “I _was_ , it’s just—”

“I asked him to show me the showcase routine again. We’re going now though,” Matsukawa offers, tongue acting before his brain can quite catch up. 

Their instructor observes them with an unimpressed look, though there’s the beginnings of a smirk somewhere in that expression too. “Uh-huh,” Yamada nods. “Come on then, I’ve got to lock up.”

Hanamaki scrambles over to his bag and Matsukawa makes quick work of grabbing up all their extra layers and a pair of practice shoes lying half-forgotten by the barre. “See you tomorrow, Yamada-sensei!” 

“Goodnight boys,” Yamada answers and it’s nothing if not fond. 

The night air is crisp on their skin, Hanamaki’s shining with a thin layer of sweat and Matsukawa’s with something a bit more flushed. 

“You didn’t have to cover for me,” Hanamaki says, somewhat distracted digging through his bag for his pass-card. 

Matsukawa shrugs, because the root of the thing is just a little bit too much for him to admit at the moment. “Sensei would’ve lectured you about overworking.” 

“I’ve heard it a hundred times.”

“Me too. That’s why I didn’t want to hear it again.” 

“Thanks,” Hanamaki says flatly, but when he turns Matsukawa can see the dip of his dimple through the mottled street-lamp lighting; shadowy profile prettier than it has any right to be.

“You’re welcome,” he answers back as straight-faced as he can before they both tumble over into silly laughter.

* * *

There comes a point in everyone’s life, Hanamaki had been told, that particular bridges must be crossed and decisions made. He’d always imagined this to mean which high school track to pursue, whether university would be a good fit, what club to apply for, etcetera, etcetera. 

But since the day he first set foot in that beginner’s ballet class, the first few moments watching his peers warming up and regarding their instructor with wide, curious eyes, the first words spoken with that so very _steady_ Matsukawa Issei—he knew, deep down, things for him were a bit different.

It had been a steep bridge to even consider crossing in the first place, the idea of applying and auditioning for any type of overseas training. Academia was still of the upmost importance, and though his family was more than capable of affording the tuition and boarding fees, when it came down to it such a decision as this one had to be Hanamaki’s own to make. 

In the end, with Matsukawa’s eyes staring straight through to his fast beating heart, the decision hadn’t been a difficult one at all. 

It was fate really—Hanamaki never thought he’d be the kind of person to believe in fairytale things like that, but their twin admittance letters, sealed with shining golden foil, was enough to make him start believing. 

Paris in the fall is so very different from Sendai or Tokyo or any other bit of Japan that Hanamaki’s ever traveled to before. So far they’ve been fairly preoccupied with the start of classes, adjusting to the higher paced load of dance courses, and acclimating to a new school and country altogether. 

It’s a Sunday, a month under their belts, and Hanamaki finds himself currently preoccupied with the way the afternoon sunlight falls dappled and golden across Matsukawa’s skin through the auburn trees overhead. They’ve got a few books open between the two of them, notebooks scribbled with smearing graphite, and a couple of half-drunk Orangina bottles. His mouth still tastes of sweet sugar, the profiteroles Matsukawa had smuggled with them sitting happily in his belly, none of their instructors the wiser. 

Hanamaki isn’t certain he’d be making it as well as he is, fifteen and still a bit fragile, if Matsukawa weren’t here alongside him—and what a thought that is. One that makes his chest ache just a little bit with something he can’t quite define. Or maybe it’s just a profiterole induced sugar rush?

“Take a picture, it’ll last longer,” Matsukawa says, not bothering to lift his head from the level one language text in his hands. Or at least, Hanamaki is pretty sure that’s what he’s said—Matsukawa has since taken it upon himself to show Hanamaki up not only in his much tighter double tour en l'air but in his ability to pick up the French language almost as if it were his native tongue. 

Hanamaki himself will admit, he’s picked up quite a bit on his own, all things considered, but he still prefers speaking in his much less limited English with instructors or classmates. Truly, he’d prefer to speak to Matsukawa in Japanese, especially in moments like these tucked away together with no one else to bother overhearing, but Matsukawa seems set on forcing him to broaden his horizons. Or some bullshit like that. 

“You’ve got,” Hanamaki starts, struggling through with an odd mix of languages crawling over his tongue. “ _Leaves_ in your hair.” 

Matsukawa makes to brush fingers through his curls, but for some unfathomable reason Hanamaki’s hand raises at the same instant. There’s a pause, however hesitant, before Hanamaki allows his wrist to dip forward, fingers plucking at a single red-orange leaf tucked over Matsukawa’s ear. 

It’d been meant as a joke, the whole thing—from his own and Matsukawa’s perspectives, he’s sure. But somehow here they are, leaned close to one another for studying and banter purposes of course, but now so much closer. Mere inches away, the crisp air between them growing warmer by the second and Hanamaki’s traitorous eyes trailing down over Matsukawa’s jaw, sharper now than even just a few months previous, down lower to the pleasing shape of his mouth, his lips. 

Hanamaki pulls back, flushed, fingers trembling almost as much as the leaves still clinging to their branches high above. 

“ _Feuille_ ,” Matsukawa says, tone meant to be informative, perhaps almost playful. But there’s something else there too, something pink-cheeked and flustered.

Somehow, it makes Hanamaki feel infinitely better and worse all at once.

“I knew that,” Hanamaki retorts automatically and in Japanese just to be cheeky.

Whatever had come over Matsukawa seems to have vanished just as quickly, a telltale smirk curving his mouth as he regards Hanamaki with an unimpressed look. His features are still dowsed in golden-edged light, but with that familiar smirk, Matsukawa is even more handsome. So very nice to look at. 

It makes Hanamaki realize—really _realize_ that maybe his life is changing even more than he’d thought. 

* * *

From Sendai to Tokyo to Paris and maybe even further—the one constant would always be the two of them together. At least that was Matsukawa’s hope, even as unrealistic as it might seem at times.

Like, maybe tonight cooped up in their meager dorm room with a flustered Hanamaki practically in his lap as they squish together on his twin sized bed.

“And then—I shit you not, he leaned in.” Hanamaki makes a show of pushing up on his knees, leaning in close to Matsukawa, so close he can see every speck of silvery-gold in the gray of the other’s irises, count every freckle painted down the bridge of his nose. 

Matsukawa swallows, just barely. “Leaned in?”

“For a kiss, I guess?” Hanamaki answers with a shrug. He moves back out of Matsukawa’s space, which is both a relief and a disappointment all at once. “But like—I’d just rejected him, right? So why the hell would he want to kiss me?”

These types of conversations between them aren’t exactly new, but Matsukawa’s not getting any better at handling them either. He feels a little bit too warm; this may be due to his oversized FC Tokyo sweatshirt or the fact that Hanamaki is so close to him and discussing such topics as kissing boys, potential or otherwise. 

“Maybe your rejection didn’t translate,” Matsukawa says for lack of anything better. Actually, he’s pretty impressed with himself that he’s managed to get that much out of his mouth.

“No, no,” Hanamaki decides. “I’m positive I was giving off big _Not Interested_ vibes, language barrier or not.”

Matsukawa’s brain whirs, wondering what exactly ‘ _big Not Interested vibes’_ entail and if he’s ever been on the receiving end of them himself and maybe he’s just not been aware. He really, sincerely hopes not.

He opens his mouth to retort, something sincere he decides. But then, for whatever bizarre reason, his tongue decides to speak before his brain’s had a chance to ready-up. “You’re just irresistible, I guess,” he says.

The words are probably serious, coming deep from his subconscious; the utmost truth. But thankfully, their friendship together is enough to dictate that this statement is most certainly sarcastic, a joke even. 

At least, it seems like Hanamaki takes it this way—what with the eye rolling and the playful shove against Matsukawa’s shoulder. But there is the tiniest bit of pink that creeps up over his nose and cheeks, barely noticeable in the dim evening lighting, but enough to bely that maybe, if things were the tiniest bit different, he might’ve taken Matsukawa’s words at face value. 

“Don’t act like you don’t notice Margot fawning over you every chance she gets,” Hanamaki throws back, obviously deflecting.

Matsukawa’s tongue feels suddenly a bit too big for his mouth. “Margot isn’t my type,” he says, because it’s true. 

“Oh, so you have a _type_ now?” Hanamaki is smirking, clearly eager to get away from whatever tension might’ve been building a moment before. It’s nothing surprising, this eagerness to stray from any sort of serious display of emotion. “Last week, you said the only thing you’re interested in is company auditions the instant you graduate.”

Matsukawa _had_ said that, but more or less in a joking manner. Still, it is a very important goal that he can’t allow anything to distract from, considering how much he’s put in so far—

That’s really not the point here, though. 

“The instant _we_ graduate,” Matsukawa reminds him pointedly. “And you’re right, I don’t have time for kissing—unlike you apparently.”

He’ll allow it for now, the avoidance. Mostly because he himself probably isn’t quite ready for heart-to-hearts to turn into anything more vulnerable between them. It’s unfair of him, to assume something like that would turn vulnerable anyways— _right?_

“Hey, I didn’t kiss him back!” Hanamaki practically screeches, squirming enough that he nearly falls off the cramped bed. “I fled like a bat out of hell.”

Matsukawa’s fingers fly to curl into the hem of his shirt, pulling him back from the edge.“How romantic,” he grins, distracting himself from the feel of Hanamaki’s soft skin when his knuckles brush along his bare stomach.

“Shut it, Issei.”

“Is that how you woo all your boys, _Takahiro?_ ” 

“No, only _you_ ,” Hanamaki’s tongue waggles between his teeth, eyes crescent moons with the force of his smile. He twists, angling his hips. “Now—my hamstrings need attention. Do I have to go find a trainer or can I trust you to handle it for me?”

It’s so much—almost too much. Matsukawa knows, especially after all of their playful banter, that it’s not meant to be anything more than another diversion. But he can’t help but allow his mind a second of pleasant hope. 

“Uh—yeah,” he says, breathes through his nose deeply. “Yeah, I can handle it.” 

Hanamaki watches him for a moment, until he seems to realize what he’d said. “Sorry I didn’t mean to—”

“No, it’s cool,” Matsukawa is quick to catch him. It’s awkward for sure and he knows the situation is a time-bomb ticking down to its last throbbing seconds. So Matsukawa reaches forward, flicking against Hanamaki’s forehead in the most friendly amount of affection he can muster. “Don’t over-think so much.”

Hanamaki allows himself to be cowed, or at least he pretends to for their benefit. Either way, Matsukawa knows now is the time to allow this avoidance to continue to its fullest extent. 

He slips off the bed, maneuvering Hanamaki’s jelly limbs until he’s laying flat on the floor between their beds so he can start with stretching the tight muscles out before massaging in a bit of heat.

Even if he allows the avoidance, Matsukawa tucks that bit of pleasant hope away for later. Not entirely snuffed out, but better saved until the embers are ready to be stoked into a full, flourishing flame. 

* * *

They don’t get a lot of down time, a lot of opportunity to just be teenagers abroad in the City of Lights, to spend time to together outside of practice rooms and recitals. It’s the nature of their chosen path, but sometimes it’s nice to just—

To just _be_. 

“I dunno—maybe I’m biased, but I like Tokyo Tower better.”

Hanamaki can feel Matsukawa’s gaze on him, eyes widening a little more than usual through the dull evening light. The air is chilled with the onset of winter, he and Matsukawa both bundled up in wool coats and plaid scarves. But despite the temperature, all around them the city is bustling with people, tourists and residents alike, flitting about with pink cheeks and steamed drinks. 

Before them, Paris’ landmark attraction is beginning to glow, to sparkle through the charcoal night—a shining, glittering beacon. 

“Seriously?” Matsukawa asks, turning to Hanamaki with a bit of disbelief. “You’re serious.”

“Well—okay, this one is maybe a little bit prettier,” Hanamaki concedes, flicking his gloved fingers out over the stone ledge they’re leaned against. “You have to admit that the Skytree is the best though.”

At this Matsukawa shrugs, moving to lean onto his forearms once more, all incredulity lost. “Well that’s just a given.” 

“See this is why you’re my best friend,” Hanamaki says, tipping his paper cup back to let the last few dregs of his milky chocolate drink drip over his tongue. “Among other reasons.”

Matsukawa’s eyes don’t seek out Hanamaki, but still his words seem to pin him in place. “Oh yeah? What other reasons?”

“Uh—you know.” Hanamaki swallows, realizing just how flippantly he’d let that slip. But he hadn’t mean anything by it, really—had he? “Just _other_ reasons.”

“Wow, I feel really special,” Matsukawa deadpans and Hanamaki can’t help the distinct timbre of his voice from trickling shivers down his spine, despite the thickness of his coat.

It’s times like these, the most casual, that always manage to undo him. It’s not as though Matsukawa is even trying to get to him, to flirt or anything at all. But—that’s the thing. Maybe it’s because Matsukawa doesn’t even have to _try_ in the first place. 

He’s had Hanamaki’s number for a long while—he just doesn’t realize it yet. 

“Actually, I um—” Hanamaki startles when Matsukawa starts speaking again, this time significantly more subdued. He turns to find him staring, looking almost as nervous as Hanamaki feels. “Can I talk to you about something?”

He’s not exactly sure where it is that this is going, because how can he? Sure, he has wanted to talk to Matsukawa for a while now. And not just talk—but, _talk talk_. About things that maybe have been kept bottled up inside of himself for so long now that he fears if he doesn’t let them out soon, he’s just going to _burst_ —

“Yeah, of course,” Hanamaki agrees, tongue a little numb. “What’s up?” 

He’s trying hard to act easy-going, but he’s not sure how well he’s pulling it off. Hanamaki sticks his hands deep inside his pockets, pretending like his shiver of anticipation is just due to the cold instead of the effort it’s taking _not_ to get lost in the way the tower lights reflect ethereal golden sparkles across Matsukawa’s deep, dark eyes. 

“Well, you know a couple of months ago and you were talking about Jean and how he was trying to ask you out?”

Despite everything, Hanamaki manages a snort at that. “More like trying to suck face,” he says. “But go on.”

“Yeah—uh. Well I wanted to be completely transparent with you,” Matsukawa says and something about that makes Hanamaki’s stomach start to feel too light, like it’s starting to fill with helium. “Since we are best friends and all.”

“Okay,” Hanamaki answers slowly, taking his time in trying to wrap his brain about where exactly this talk is going. “What’s going on—did he try to kiss you too?”

Matsukawa smirks at his gasp, reaching up on reflect to push playfully at Hanamaki’s shoulder. “No, no, nothing like _that,_ ” Matsukawa explains a little quicker than maybe necessary. In fact, his words are picking up speed so fast Hanamaki is having a little trouble keeping up. “I just thought I should tell you—when you were talking about that, I kind of felt a little bit— _jealous_.”

Hanamaki’s head feels dizzy with confusion, the cloying scent of hot chocolate and _Gitanes_ cigarette smoke wafting around them not doing much to help. It’s strange, for some reason he wants to pull Matsukawa in a bit closer, wants their conversation to be even more intimate than it already seems to be. But—they’re in public, not back at the dorms. So he doesn’t.

“Jealous?” Hanamaki’s voice sounds foreign to his own ears. “You like Jean?”

Time and space seems to have slowed, the meandering crowds around them nothing more than a blur in the background. The lights flicker in some sort of stop-motion, making the tower appear more intangible than it already is. 

Hanamaki’s pulse thuds inside his head, his blood sloshing around his insides doing everything in its power to keep his heart pumping, his lungs breathing. He stares at Matsukawa, waiting on something bated and uncertain, and Matsukawa just—

He just starts to _laugh_.

“What?” Matsukawa huffs out, nose so red it’s hard to tell whether it’s from the cold or something else. “Fuck no—I like _you_.”

“You,” Hanamaki repeats, tongue absolutely stuck until he swallows past the cotton in his mouth. “You _like me?_ ”

“So I actually had this whole heartfelt confession planned in my head,” Matsukawa starts to explain sheepishly. Thankfully he hasn’t yet seemed to notice Hanamaki’s utter lack of composure. “But I guess—this is more fitting anyways.”

“You were going to confess— _are_ confessing to me,” Hanamaki says, slow and steady just to make sure the words come out right. “At the Eiffel Tower?”

Matsukawa frowns, just a little, but it’s enough to squeeze at Hanamaki’s insides. “Well—when you say it like that it makes it sound like a stupid cliché.”

“It _is_ a stupid cliché,” Hanamaki bursts out, entirely unable to hold back. He grins as widely as he can without seeming manic. “It’s awesome—I _love_ it.” 

And he does, he really does. Hanamaki’s chest swells faster than he can begin to process just what exactly is happening here. Everything feels like it’s crashing down at once, raining down and pelting them hard from the dark, snow-puff clouds overhead—but it’s nothing short of _wonderful_. 

“Oh,” Matsukawa breathes out, gazing at Hanamaki softly. The weight encasing Hanamaki’s heart lifts, everything that had been pooling there, that had been itching to get _out_ — “So—yeah. I like you. Now you know.”

It’s out—it’s out, out, _out_. 

“I—I like you too.” Hanamaki stumbles, shuffling forward to physically close the gap between them.

Matsukawa looks down those few short centimeters, watching Hanamaki down the bridge of his tanned nose. “You—what?” 

“I like you too, dummy,” Hanamaki beams, lighter than air. He threads his fingers through Matsukawa’s plush scarf, tugging. “Or is it that hard to tell?”

Matsukawa blinks, but his mouth goes from wobbly to something so warm it practically makes Hanamaki melt right then and there. “Wow, we are both really terrible at this confession thing.”

Hanamaki lets out a mock gasp, tugging at the scarf again playfully. “Speak for yourself,” he says with a smirk. “Besides—we _are_ in a very romantic place in a very romantic city.”

Because Paris isn’t _just_ the City of Lights, after all. 

“Thought you said it was a stupid cliché,” Matsukawa hums, wrapping his arms around Hanamaki’s shoulders to hold him close.

Hanamaki grins, allowing his body relax into Matsukawa’s firm chest. “And I also said I think it’s _awesome_.”

“I think _you’re_ awesome.”

“Okay, now that we’ve both put our cards on the table does that mean we are going to be gross, like, _all_ the time to each other?”

“Definitely,” Matsukawa chuckles, the laughter rumbling all the little places where they’re pressed together. “The grosser the better.”

In the distance, the tower seems to shimmer brighter than ever before. 

Hanamaki smiles so hard his cheeks ache with it. “Yeah, I think I can handle that.”

City of Love indeed. It’s so perfectly _un_ -perfect—Hanamaki doesn’t really care if it’s a cliché or not. Because, well, it’s _them._

And that’s all that matters. 

* * *

The little patisserie wasn’t a very difficult choice, considering Hanamaki’s rampant sweet tooth and Matsukawa’s rampant need to fulfill it. The hard part was finding time to get away, without making too much of a fuss and without missing out on any of the extra practices being held for the winter showcase. 

But they’d made time—after all, first dates like this one don’t come around very often.

“Okay I think I can die happily now,” Hanamaki hums, licking a bit of sugar from his lips. “This is the best thing I have ever put in my mouth.”

Across the table, Matsukawa watches with as much composure as he can manage. Today Hanamaki had decided to wear his pretty pastel blue sweater, the one just big enough to show off the dips of his collar bones, and paired with the way his pink tongue keeps making an appearance—it’s really starting to _effect_ to Matsukawa. 

Not that he’s complaining. 

“Do you realize how sexual you just made that sound?” Matsukawa asks, trying to turn the burn of his cheeks into something of a playful joke. 

“I love these profiteroles, Issei,” Hanamaki says, plucking another pastry between his thumb and forefinger and squeezing until a bit of white cream starts to poke out the edge. “What—what’s that look for?”

“Nothing.” Matsukawa swallows, averting his eyes to the remaining treats between them, eyeing a raspberry macron with the utmost intensity. “Just like how you say my name.”

The patisserie is small and quaint, walls painted a pleasing deep burgundy and all the tables and chairs tastefully mismatched. The air is heated warm from the kitchen ovens, the scent of vanilla, sweet bread, and bitter chocolate wafting all through the room, all the way out the door and down the tree-lined street. Matsukawa takes a deep breath, noting all of these scents, but above all he can smell the citrus cologne Hanamaki has taken to wearing as of late, some mature Parisian brand that makes Matsukawa nearly forget their age. 

“What— _Issei?_ ” Hanamaki grins, curling the syllables over his tongue. “Wow, you weren’t kidding—it’s just going to be a total cheese-fest from here on out, isn’t it?”

“You like it,” Matsukawa shoots back a little half-heartedly. He can’t quite tell if he’s feeling admonished or just smitten. “Anyways you’re _way_ cheesier than I am—who’s the one that drew little hearts all over the mirror this morning after showering?”

Hanamaki shrugs casually. “I always do that.”

“Yeah but usually it’s little penises, not hearts,” Matsukawa snorts, this time definitely smitten over anything else. “You’re getting soft— _Hiro_.”

Hanamaki pauses, a bite of millefeuille halfway to his mouth. “Hiro,” he repeats, voice just a few notches deeper than usual.

Matsukawa isn’t entirely able to read Hanamaki, which is quite unusual for him. He tries to hold back his panic, asking as carefully as possible, “Do you not like it?”

A little bell chimes above the front door as an older couple enters, their granddaughter skidding to a halt in front of the pastry display case. A chilled winter breeze follows them, the short rush of air a balm over Matsukawa’s rapidly heating cheeks. 

“I think—I like it a lot, actually.”

Hanamaki’s watching him, gaze heavy-lidded but oh so fond. His plush lips are curved up at the corners, more than a smirk but softer than anything else. Matsukawa finds that he can’t quite look away.

“Good,” he says, ignoring the way his voice sticks in the back of his throat. “You can have the last profiterole by the way.”

“No, no, that one’s yours.”

“How about we split it?”

“Okay—I just can’t find the strength to argue when there’s custard cream on the line.” 

Hanamaki picks up the last profiterole, bringing it to his mouth with a reverent little smile. The pastry is flaky and light while the rich filling is piped into a perfect spiral, the entire thing dusted in delicate white confectioners sugar that sticks to his fingers and lips. He takes a bite, cutting the treat almost exactly in two, before holding out the last bit to Matsukawa across the table. 

But—when Matsukawa reaches forward to take it, Hanamaki shakes his head, mouth full but eyes shining with obvious amusement. Matsukawa stutters just a bit, fearing he might malfunction here and now in this quaint patisserie, but the way Hanamaki watches him so hopefully—he can’t help but to appease. He leans forward, over their plate of half-eaten desserts, and takes the last bit of pastry from Hanamaki’s fingers using only his _mouth_. 

Hanamaki swallows his own bite, watching Matsukawa chew with a very satisfied look. “Wow—and you think _I_ was being sexual?” he chuckles. 

Matsukawa frowns, licking a bit of wayward custard from the corner of his mouth. “You’re lucky you’re so cute.”

“If I’m cute, you’re handsome,” Hanamaki throws back without missing a beat. “We make the perfect couple.”

“You’re not just cute,” Matsukawa says, words falling from his lips before he can help it. “You’re _beautiful_.”

This of all things manages to get Hanamaki’s mouth snapping shut, his freckle-speckled cheeks growing hot under Matsukawa’s watchful eyes. “You—you can’t just say things like that.”

Matsukawa feels something in his chest swell, something a bit like pride and overwhelming affection. “Why not?” he wonders. “I’m you’re boyfriend, aren’t I?”

“Well, yeah but—”

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you quite so _pink_.”

“I can’t help it—you’re too much,” Hanamaki practically whines, eyes scrunching shut and palm reaching up to rub over his cheeks.

Matsukawa hums, pleased with the turn of events. “It’s just the truth,” he says, taking a fork to what remains of of the delicate millefeuille. They’ll have to do double duty in the gym to get over this indulgent date, but it’s certainly worth it.

“See there you go again.” Hanamaki groans before pointing an accusatory finger at Matsukawa’s chest. “Okay—if I’m beautiful, then you’re hot as hell.”

Matsukawa laughs around a bite of puff pastry and fresh strawberry. “As hell?”

Hanamaki crosses his arms defensively, waving in Matsukawa’s direction. “Have you seen your abs?”

“Have you seen _yours?_ ” Matsukawa counters, doing his level-best to keep his face neutral.

But Hanamaki just smirks, turning his nose up in a dramatic little display. “I’m a _dancer_ —what do you expect?”

Matsukawa shakes his head, entirely too endeared to say anything else. “You’re _ridiculous_.” 

“Thanks,” Hanamaki says, quite serious. He takes a sip of his warm tea, looking contemplative over the rim. “I think this is going well. I don’t really know—I’ve never been on a first date before.”

“Me neither,” Matsukawa replies, realizing quite abruptly the actual gravity to their words. Almost as though a switch had been flipped, the atmosphere becomes infinitely more poignant. “Never really had time to think about dating.”

“I guess not,” Hanamaki sinks a little lower in his chair, giving a contented sigh. “Seems like maybe we were meant to be, huh?”

Matsukawa smirks, once again hiding his fluster. “And you think _I’m_ too much?”

“It’s just the truth,” Hanamaki says, no room for argument, before his eyes flick over to the counter. “Hey—want to try that chocolate mousse thing?”

Matsukawa watches him closely, studying the little pout of his lower lips and the curl of his strawberry hair where it’s grown just a bit too longer over his nape. “Whatever you want, Hiro.”

When Hanamaki turns back it’s with a toothy grin. “Okay— _Issei.”_

Yeah, Matsukawa thinks he could get used to this. 

* * *

The first kiss goes even softer, slower, and _sweeter_ than the first date.

It’s not exactly planned, which Hanamaki thinks is what makes it so special. 

All around them, their fellow classmates are bustling about, gathering up textbooks and practice shoes and thick winter pea-coats. It’s the day before Christmas break, a short reprieve from classes and grueling practices, from the accomplished warmth of muscle fatigue and the thrill of landing a grand jeté without a hitch. 

They’re walking back to the dorms together, already packed and ready to leave for Sendai on a red-eye flight, when the snow begins to fall. 

The flakes are thick and wet, dampening their wind swept hair, clinging to Hanamaki’s long lashes, to Matsukawa’s thick brow. 

It’s fueled by laughter, a bit giddy and pink-cheeked; innocent and perfectly uncaring of the snow globe enclosing its crystal walls around them. 

Hanamaki can think of no better way.

The touch is warm, Matsukawa’s lips a pleasant pressure against his own. Hanamaki winds a hand behind the taller’s neck, holding him close and steady. A bump of chilled noses, a smack of spit-slick lips. 

Hanamaki gazes up into molten eyes, Matsukawa’s arms around him so steady he feels as though he could melt and never fall. A snowflake trapped in the embrace of photograph flash, a memory kept close always. 

When Matsukawa leans in for another kiss, this one a bit deeper, a bit more like what a kiss aught to feel like between two people in so deep, Hanamaki presses into it and takes, takes, _takes_. 

And—he never falls.

Being a successful professional dancer isn’t an accomplishment easily reached. Being an artist in the corps de ballet of the internationally renowned Royal Ballet is something else altogether. 

Matsukawa can still remember the first time he’d seen it—The Royal Ballet company. It had been early June, the air just turning sticky hot and the gardens of Ueno Park bursting with fragrant hydrangea. His mother had taken them, he and Hanamaki both, on the Shinkansen from Sendai to Tokyo. 

He can still remember it so vividly, the sensation of pure awe and excitement upon entering Tokyo Bunka Kaiken, the theater far more lavish and beautiful than any place he’d visited before. The walls covered in beautifully carved wood, the seats upholstered red velvet. The stage laid out at the main hall’s center, all eyes turned to its shining white floor, its simple backdrop. 

But it would always be the performance that he remembered the most. 

Afterward, amidst the standing ovation roar, he can still vividly picture the way Hanamaki’s features glowed just as much as his own. Their eyes wide and their hearts filled with vigor, with that rampant feeling of a challenge about to be accepted. 

And now—

Here they are. 

“First position, bending forward—back to the barre, away from the barre,” the instructor says, her voice soft but firm as ever. “Fourth position with arm up and turn towards the barre. Same thing—fifth position, inside arm, turn—grand plié,” she explains in quick words, with smooth gestures as they rest of the class observes. “And last four counts a little slower. Ready, please and—”

In one smooth motion every body in the room moves, fluid and graceful as water spilling over the precipice. 

Matsukawa breathes, counts in his head and listens to their instructor’s soothing voice, her lilting comments and quiet corrections as she glides herself around the practice room. He bends easily into the plié, keeping his feet together and his knees spread, and he can feel the pleasant warmth growing in his muscles. 

Across the room, along the far mirrored wall, a head of strawberry pink hair dips and turns as the group moves back into first position as a single, living unit. Matsukawa watches, breathes in time with his beats, admires the way that black track jacket fits all of Hanamaki’s curves, the way his bronze lashes splay over freckled cheeks, lips pursed in concentration but oh so pretty and plush and—

“Both shoulders back, not just one,” his instructor says next to him, her voice calm but when Matsukawa turns to acknowledge the adjustment he finds her crow-foot eyes alight with something soft, something _knowing_. 

It’s not a secret, what he and Hanamaki share. They’ve never let it get in the way of their professional careers but—it’s hard not to look, not to admire _sometimes_. Hanamaki says it’s normal, but Matsukawa thinks he just lacks any rigid self-control.

Ironic, considering his current position. 

It hadn’t always been as easy as this, as morning practice at the barre with their other members, with the flutter of piano keys in the background and the golden sunlight filtering in through the overhead skylights. 

London is different than Paris, different than Japan and Tokyo and Sendai. Each and every city the company travels to is different. The practices, the commitment, the physical demands—they’re different too. 

But one thing always remains—

Later Matsukawa watches Hanamaki’s double saut de basque, beautiful and strong, muscles flexing beneath smooth cream skin and heathered spandex. He tries to memorize the exact curl of his leg, the look of pure concentration sculpted over his features as he spins and floats like it’s nothing.

Not long ago really, those features had held nothing but worry, over-extended anxiety. The routines, the tryouts, the waiting—it had taken nearly all Hanamaki had to give. And even with Matsukawa by his side it’d almost been too much. 

Helpless—a clawing, desperate feeling that Matsukawa doesn’t ever want to experience again. But even more so, he’s glad to have gotten over the steep upward battle with Hanamaki still safe at his side. 

Matsukawa’s heart pounds through the adagio, muscles held taught; slow, refined, fluid. Chopin’s _Nocturnes Op.9, No.1_ rings through his ears, each ivory note reverberating through the steps of his suede split-sole shoes.

The Royal Ballet: the moon’s glow floating in raven dark water, intangible.

Hanamaki Takahiro: a lotus reflected in the mirror-glass walls of the practice room, an illusion.

But for Matsukawa—perhaps not so unattainable after all.

* * *

Typically they spend their off-days, those very few, wrapped up in each other’s company. Today is no different, save for one minor oddity that Hanamaki can’t quite seem to get over.

“Okay, this is really nice of you but can’t I just—” 

Matsukawa is quick to bat Hanamaki’s hands away from the wooden spoon he’s got resting on the edge of a simmering pot of miso and eggplant. “Has anyone ever told you that you’re a control freak?” Matsukawa asks, eyes not once leaving the karaage crisping in a low skim of golden oil. 

“I’m not trying to control, I’m trying to help,” Hanamaki says, eyeing the various bottles and ingredients spread a bit haphazardly across their flat’s meager kitchen counter. 

Matsukawa throws him a sidelong glance, gesturing towards the stools propped under the bar. “What I want you to do is sit there and relax while I make you dinner.”

Hanamaki sighs, defeated. “Where did you get Kewpie mayo anyways?” he wonders as he goes to perch on the stool’s very edge.

“Special order,” Issei answers deadpan, turning back to the stove. “Just for you.”

“So thoughtful, Issei. Y’know if you—”

“Don’t tell me,” Matsukawa barks, holding the back of his hand up so Hanamaki can see. “I’m doing just fine without your critiquing.” 

“Fine, fine.” Hanamaki sucks in a deep breath, the scent of frying potato starch and miso and sour pickles heavy in the warm air. “It—smells good?”

“Is that your attempt at a compliment?” Matsukawa snorts. “Why is it a question?”

“It smells good,” Hanamaki repeats, adjusting his inflection. He’d been serious before, this time too. But maybe Matsukawa is right, maybe he is a bit of a control freak—at least when it comes to the kitchen. “Thank you for doing this—really.”

“You’re welcome.”

“I’m trying my best to relax—it’s just that _I’m_ used to doing the cooking.”

“I know you are.”

“Can I at least come closer?” 

Matsukawa turns, his eyes heavy lidded but watching Hanamaki with that familiar brand of amused affection. Hanamaki drums his fingers along the bar between them, suddenly impatient to touch. The song changes through the little speaker pumping out background music, the instrumental rhythm light and airy and pleasing. Tchaikovskys _Garland Waltz_. 

“Fine,” Matsukawa decides, spooning out the latest batch of indulgent fried chicken. “But no helping the cook.”

Hanamaki’s up in an instant, gliding over on the balls of his feet. “How about—” he starts, moving to wrap his arms around Matsukawa from behind. “ _Distracting_ the cook?”

“Do you _want_ to eat some time tonight?”

“Come on,” Hanamaki presses his grin into Matsukawa’s shoulder, attempting to sway them both to the graceful beat. “You love this song.”

Matsukawa huffs a soft, cute noise of annoyance. “This song is so ingrained in my brain that I wake up with it playing on repeat in my head.”

“ _Issei_ ,” Hanamaki whines, throwing a bit of extra petulance into his tone. 

Matsukawa sighs, but doesn’t bother to pull away. “If I give you a kiss, will you leave me be?”

Hanamaki presses his fingers along the hem of Matsukawa’s loose shirt, dipping under to play along the hard, warm planes of his stomach. “I want a _dance,_ ” he pouts around a chuckle. 

“Oh is that the fee now?” Matsukawa hums, but there’s a distinct hitch in his voice when Hanamaki tickles up his side. “We dance together all the time.”

“Not like this,” Hanamaki says, letting his lips brush innocently along Matsukawa’s nape. “C’mon, please?”

It takes a moment, but finally Matsukawa seems to relent, turning in Hanamaki’s hold so they’re facing one another, toe-to-toe.

He brings a thumb up to pluck at Hanamaki’s lips. “How can I refuse when you pout like that?”

“M’not pouting.” Hanamaki grins.

“You definitely are. You’re lucky you’re cute.”

“How about—” Hanamaki says, tugging Matsukawa’s hand into his own and grabbing his waist. “I’m just _lucky?_ ”

Hanamaki pulls him along and this time Matsukawa doesn’t argue, just follows his lead.

* * *

It’s years later, when Hanamaki gets Benvolio in _Romeo and Juliet_ , and Matsukawa has to hold himself steady, wipe away the tears of relief and joy from the other man’s speckled cheeks and insist on ordering a bottle of Dom Pérignon when he takes him out to celebrate. When Matsukawa gets Lescaut in _Manon_ , and Hanamaki kisses every inch of his face, down his neck, grasps his sides and holds him close. 

It’s all very exciting and new. 

Years later still, on a cold winter’s night in Paris, performances behind them, feet bruised and wrapped and aching, they find themselves back in the warm embrace of that familiar little patisserie. 

They enter together, oven warmth and melted sugar floating on the air as the little bell tinkles their arrival. Tonight they’re a bit taller, a bit broader. Their hands rest easily wrapped up in each other, not so awkward, not so timid. Stronger, older, wiser—but perhaps not so different than when they were young and wide-eyed and just beginning. 

The profiteroles taste just as satisfying on their tongues, Hanamaki’s eyes aglow just as pretty as they always had been, always will be. Matsukawa across from him, watching with contentedness, patient and steady. 

The two of them together here are time-tested. Far from naive and deer-legged, far from a class full of hopeful beginners. Stronger, older, wiser.

The little band of polished gold nestled on a bed of plush velvet, however, is anything but. 

Matsukawa watches; steady, patient, content. 

Hanamaki’s eyes glow, wide and thick-lashed and beautiful as ever. 

Here, in their place together, back where it began. And now—

A gasp, a grin. “Issei, holy sh—”

“So—is that a yes?”

And now—something even _more_ exciting and new.

* * *

The words had been easily spoken; a vow, a promise.

Hanamaki watches Matsukawa’s hands, strong and veined and tanned a pretty bronze from the summer sun. They run up and down the taught flesh of his calf, the inside of his ankle, twisting and turning as careful and understanding as the trainers at Covent Garden. His fingers push into the flesh, knead into the arch of his foot, drawing warmth out then pressing it back in. 

On his left ring finger, a band of gold glints pleasantly in the low light of their bedroom; a vow. 

“Issei,” Hanamaki murmurs, voice so soft it’s nearly inaudible even to his own ears. 

Matsukawa hums, flicks his eyes up to catch Hanamaki’s own. “Hm?”

“I love you,” Hanamaki says, nothing more, nothing less. Calm and content, soft and honest. 

The smile he receives has already been memorized down to the finest details, stored away in his mind like a polaroid photograph tucked away in an old, leather album on the shelf. But still—that smile never gets old; Matsukawa’s full lips, the dip of his cupid’s bow prominent and marked by a single freckle that Hanamaki can’t ever seem to resist. 

“I love you too,” he answers, easy and matter-of-fact.

Matsukawa’s hands press a bit more warmth into Hanamaki’s aching bones, his tender muscles, before coming up to splay firmly over his cheeks instead, leaning in for a kiss that feels more like—

More like—a promise. 

* * *

It’s something that always lingers in the back of everyone’s minds, the possibility, especially in a profession such as this.

Human beings are fragile creatures, dancers perhaps more-so. All it takes is one wrong move, a single misstep, one ill-timed landing, one unbraced lift.

It’s something that lingers, a foggy recess of the mind, hidden within the shadows of positions and routines, suites and grand pas. 

A possibility, but not something one ever thinks is going to happen to _them_. 

Matsukawa is stretching in the wings when Hanamaki hits the unforgiving stage floor. 

It’s nothing that’s never happened before—a fall is not unheard of, their bodies often littered with bruises especially after a day of rehearsal or an evening of performances. It’s not out of the ordinary, a minor mistake that will likely hurt pride more than anything else. 

But—

Hanamaki hits the floor. Matsukawa _heard_ it, he knows he heard it—not the sound of impact, but something else. 

Something much worse. 

“It’s—I heard it,” a voice that sounds far away from Hanamaki’s usual velvet tone echoes out across the stage, straight through Matsukawa’s chest. “I heard a—a _pop,_ like a gunshot.”

A gunshot.

Only—Matsukawa knows it’s not that. 

The worst part is, he and Akane hadn’t even been practicing their infamous cheshire cat lift. Hanamaki hadn’t been grinding through revoltade after revoltade. No fleet footwork or rapid pirouettes. 

He’d been floating across the stage, the jumps a series Hanamaki could do in his sleep. 

But—a single misstep. 

Matsukawa runs, leaps past Akane as she too starts to scramble towards Hanamaki’s crumpled form. He can hear his own breathing, short and labored, can see the way Hanamaki’s own chest heaves with the effort to breathe through the shock. 

On Hanamaki’s left hand, the golden band glints under the burning stage lights where his fingers dig into the flesh of his thigh, pressing and scraping just to feel something— _anything_. 

“I—I can’t feel it,” Hanamaki pushes out, his teeth grit and his eyes wide as the panic begins to take over. “I can’t feel my foot.” 

“It’s okay, Hiro. I’ve got you,” Matsukawa whispers, pressing lips into the edge of Hanamaki’s slick temple. It’s the most comfort he can manage to offer. “You’re going to be okay.”

He says the words like a vow, a promise. 

Even though he doesn’t know if it’s one he will be able to keep. 

Hanamaki loves watching the way Matsukawa moves when he dances. 

The stage lights wash moon-beam blue rays over Matsukawa’s bronzed skin, contrasting against the pearl white of his costume, the ebony sheen of his curls. He is as regal a prince as the role he portrays, eyes heavy lidded with golden makeup, jaw strong and sharp.

An ethereal beat is plucked from the harp, the violin strings singing with each dancer’s careful steps across the stage. Matsukawa guides his Odette through each arabesque, each pirouette, smooth and elegantly executed. He lifts her with ease, showing no strain or effort even if the movements take a refined amount of muscle strength and precision to execute with the proper trust. 

Hanamaki follows each movement steadfast, counting beats inside his head, unable to quite get the habit out of his brain even after all this time. 

The music lulls him, his mind a fog of past and present. On stage, Matsukawa shines brighter than all the stars in Paris’ night sky. 

In the audience, Hanamaki glows too. 

Afterwards, when the performances are through, they’ll take a train to the little patisserie. They’ll sample warm drinks and sweet treats. Matsukawa will buy one too many profiteroles, lamenting over the indulgence and plying Hanamaki’s plate with the extras. They’ll walk hand in hand down the Champs-Elysées, watch flickering sparkles of light and grow homesick for Tokyo Tower and the glittering trees of Jozenji-dori. 

Even later, when the shows are all run through and what seems like every last stage of the world has been stood upon, Matsukawa will take his last bow. 

And even as Hanamaki looks on with his vision blurred, his heart constricted in both relief and ache, he knows Matsukawa won’t look back. 

Only forward—for the both of them, together. 

* * *

Their Ukima studio isn’t exactly The Royal Ballet.

Matsukawa watches the glow high up on Hanamaki’s cheeks as he laughs and grins, teasing one of their youngest students, challenging him to match each and every one of Hanamaki’s swift entrechats. 

It’s a warm feeling, the one seated deep inside of his chest, something he sometimes forgets about, seeing how ingrained it’s become in his everyday being. Matsukawa breathes in, the scent of Hanamaki’s bergamot candles heavy in the air, undercut only by the lemony tang of parquet floor polish. 

Later, curled together in bed, the faint hum of ballet suites playing somewhere in the background, Matsukawa catches Hanamaki’s gaze. Bronze lashes are curled against his cheeks as if by design, eyes heavy with sleep and comfort. Still, he tilts his head to meet Matsukawa’s languid movements without hesitation. 

The kiss is soft, so natural it takes no effort at all the melt into the touch. Matsukawa leans in, presses fingers into the soft strands of hair at Hanamaki’s nape, traces his lips out over the edge of Hanamaki’s mouth, up his jaw, over the crow-foot lines of his heavy-set lids.

“Issei,” Hanamaki chides, though his smile isn’t at all hidden. 

Matsukawa hums, presses a few more kisses over his speckled flesh. “I love you,” he murmurs, lost in a dream he doesn’t ever want to wake up from.

And—he won’t, he thinks. 

They won’t. 

“I love you too,” Hanamaki answers in that familiar velvet voice, pressing himself close to Matsukawa’s chest as though the string between them has dwindled down to mere centimeters, no room for slack. 

It’s not Paris or the gilded stages of worldly opera houses. It’s not that pleasant ache of worn muscles, of bone-tired feet. It’s not the vibrating wave of standing-ovation applause or the gold-glow lights of the stage. 

But—it’s enough. More than enough. 

It’s _better_ , Matsukawa thinks. 

**Author's Note:**

> Interested? Find me on:  
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